Live from Moscow (41 page)

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-ONE

At first the taxi made slow, fitful progress. Gallagher could not see Conley
or Claire in the backseat; thickets of bodies around the vehicle were too
dense. Shouts from reporters shrilled the air. Oleg nodded toward the
commotion.

"Satisfied, Art?"

"Couldn't have gone better," he answered.

They'd watched the brief press conference from the hotel's blanketed front
lawn, back some yards from the cordon of media personnel. Snow beneath their
feet had already been kicked up and trampled over by assorted news crews.
Gallagher thought for a moment.

"What about you, Oleg?"

"Me?"

"Shakuri's out. The aid bill's been derailed. And your man…I mean
Russia's man…will be the next Prime Minister."

Oleg looked back, impassive except for a raised eyebrow. He still wasn't
letting on.

"Russia did get what it wanted," he acknowledged. "All the
same, I wouldn't go too hard on Franklin Stanson. His intentions were good. And
we're basically working toward the same goals there."

To Gallagher this was far too generous. He said he was inclined toward less
leniency.

"Actually, that wasn't what I was thinking about, just now," Oleg
continued.

Gallagher eyed him.

"I was thinking Steve and I turned down two-and-a-half million dollars
each, for something we ended up doing anyway."

Gallagher snorted, with a faint smile. He hadn't thought of that.

"Any regrets?"

Reporters, photographers and cameramen had finally and grudgingly given way,
and the taxi was proceeding less tentatively. Oleg waited some seconds as the
ruckus de-intensified.

"No. Money was never a motive for me in any of this." He paused
for an instant. "And I don't think it was for Steve, either."

"What was it, then?" Gallagher asked him.

"For Steve?"

"Yes."

Their gazes gravitated back to the taxi, now descending slowly between
snow-banks along the curving hotel drive. Through the rear window, Conley and
Claire were now visible, in apparent conversation. Several cameramen and
photographers still jogged alongside. Oleg considered and opened his mouth to
answer. He stopped when a uniformed concierge materialized, holding a portable
phone.

"Mr. Gallagher?"

"Yes?"

"You have a call. A Mr. Harry Whitcombe."

"Can I take it out here?"

The concierge handed the phone over. Oleg took a couple of polite steps
back. Gallagher held up a gloved hand, gesturing for him to stay, and spoke
into the device. The connection was clear. Below, he saw the taxi turn on its
right blinker, waiting to merge into boulevard traffic.

"Harry?"

"Art…I wanted to reach you earlier, right after you filed your
story..."

Whitcombe's voice shot with elation. He sounded more alive and confident
than he had in weeks. Gallagher checked his watch. It was just after 3:30 a.m.
in Boston.

"And, I just saw Conley on CNN."

Had the stalwart publisher regained his old form? After a delay, Gallagher
recognized why. There had been several by-products to this. Winners and losers.
He'd almost forgotten: Whitcombe was one of the former.

"Congratulations are in order, Art. Conley's safe. Although nothing
is definitive, we gained some more clarity about Peter. And this has turned
into the kind of big story that I imagined at the beginning. We'll give
Conley's articles top play. This truly stands to energize the paper."

Gallagher thanked him. There could be worse beneficiaries from this than
Whitcombe.

"I also want to tell you, Art…There are some issues I've got
to sort out with Janet…Some things I haven't been pleased with. Let's
just say I want you to play an even more central role when you get back."

Another by-product that Gallagher hadn't intended. He did not object.

"Is Conley there?"

Gallagher turned again down the drive. The taxi was gone. Cameramen and
photographers who had followed the vehicle down to the gate were already
walking back up toward the hotel.

"I'm afraid you missed him, Harry. He and Claire have just left."

Other journalists and news crews milled nearby, appearing unsatiated. A
couple of reporters recognized Gallagher, and began heading his way. Others
paid attention. Oleg gave Gallagher a cautionary glance.

"I may have to sign off soon, Harry," Gallagher said. "A
stampede is coming."

"Just one more thing, Art. I know you recommended Conley for this
assignment in the first place. And I had some doubts, based on my personal
experience…"

Gallagher waited, wondering what was coming.

"But maybe those also told me, deep down, that he was right for
this."

Gallagher glanced again toward the boulevard.

"I would agree, Harry. Your instincts were correct."

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-TWO

At the gate Conley looked over his shoulder. Last foot-bound pursuers from
the media contingent drew up and watched, still not satiated, as the taxi
turned onto the boulevard. No vehicles gave chase.

With the furor behind, Claire appeared relieved, redirected. As though she'd
re-claimed core certainties. She scooted closer. Nothing suggestive; she just
looked grateful. He belatedly recognized that much of her behavior the evening
before---and even earlier that morning---had been a function of stress.

"You did well, Steve."

"Well enough, I guess."

"No
. Incroyablement.
"

"Thanks."

Their taxi fused into traffic. They were moving southwest along the
Moskva
:
the first riverside route Conley had attempted the night before. Luzhniki
Stadium lay further around the wide bend, on the opposite bank. Unrecoverable
distance, it seemed to him, had opened between that expedition and the present.

"Guess that's it, then," she said.

"Not exactly, Claire. I still have my articles to write. Probably the
most important component of all this."

"Of course. Any second thoughts?"

Conley gave her a quizzical look. As if to release him from responding, she
smiled. Rush from the media spotlight was still strong; she had an effect. He
had to fight it. There would be no replay of Paris. Even if Lilya and Milena
were for now out of the picture.

Observing his unease, Claire became contrite.

"I’m sorry, Steve. I don’t want to press you. It’s
just that these last days have been very emotional."

"I understand."

"And turned out better than I could have hoped…"

She paused. Their driver reversed direction at an intersection and re-traced
the river. Snowfall remained moderate, though enough to lend indistinct,
otherworldly qualities to central Moscow.

"I know, Steve," she said at last.

"You do?"

"Yes. The laptop…everything. I put it all together."

"And…?"

"Yes." She nodded. "I know what Peter did."

They crossed the Kutyzovkski Bridge. The Russian White House loomed along
their left. Claire fixed her eyes on the landmark a moment, as if making
broader associations.

"Since when?"

"Since last week. Thanks to Harry Whitcombe."

Conley examined her, wondering how to respond. Her next move was to sit
straighter. Fabric from her overcoat went tight along her arched spine. Her
haunches jutted in a familiar way.

Not aimed at him, as far as he could tell. Just a return of confidence. She
remained close. He was trying to tamp down his sensations when she jolted him
with another question.

"What made you do it, Steve?"

"It wasn't just me. It was Art, too…" he said..
"It’s not so important…Is it?"

She looked at him for a few seconds.

"Yes it is. You did the right thing. At least by me."

River now behind them, their taxi split the bookend skyscrapers on Kalinin
Prospekt. Traffic along the wide boulevard moved in forceful flux, unhindered
by the snow. Her palm came to rest on his knee. His reaction was immediately
palpable. She pulled back her hand and folded it with the other on her lap.

"Again, forgive my emotions, Steve. It's just that…this is the
best I've felt in six weeks, since Peter's death. Like I can start to return to
normal."

Conley nodded and inhaled. In minutes they pulled up at the destination he had
specified, the first that had come to mind: Red Square.

"Better put your hat on," she said.

"And you?"

"I won’t get cold."

They emerged from the taxi onto a sloped plaza, fronted by a deep-red,
pre-revolution-era building, and made parallel tracks along snow-coated
cobblestones. As they mounted the gradual incline the GUM shopping complex
became visible on their left. Snowfall dwindled: just intermittent, fluttering
flakes, and by increments the square came into full view, bordered on one side
by clock spires and towering brick walls of the Kremlin. The immense space was
mostly empty of people: an expanse of new whiteness and muffled tranquility.
There was no obvious path to follow.

Just past the edge of the square Claire drew to a stop. Conley did likewise
and turned to face her. She brushed snowflakes from her face and her hair to
one side. Her hand was trembling less than before.

"How long are you staying in Moscow, Steve?

"Probably about a week."

Her eyes held no implication---just her own next steps. That was enough.
Conley resorted to direct appeal.

"Claire, please remember. I've tried to do this for the right
reasons."

"I know. That's why I’m not eager to leave."

Acknowledgments by the Author

Because this was my first novel, the help I received from a small circle of
volunteers, friends and conscientious readers was particularly invaluable.
Their balanced commentary, constructive advice and general encouragement
through various stages of research, writing and editing were vital to the final
result.

Dr. Dmitri Galenchik tutored me on fatal gunshot wounds and human responses
to imminent mortality. Thibaut Behaghel provided insights and suggestions on
French social nuances and specific locations in Paris, as perhaps only a
Parisian can. Ann Johnson, Chris DiNapoli and Stephanie Weaver were intrepid
enough to plunge into my first complete draft, and their forthright reactions
highlighted the many elements that still needed work. Through numerous redrafts
Marina Telen, Elizabeth Boluch Wood, Dave Johnson and Irena Farino rendered
further diligent and generous assistance that helped propel the manuscript
toward finished form. Bethany DiNapoli, Evgeny Tribuloff and Roger Moore
contributed additional time as I reached conclusion.

To all of them, I am forever grateful.

A Note by the Author

Most of the locations I have employed in this story are real, and may be
recognizable to readers who have inhabited or traveled to the cities in
question. However for narrative convenience I have occasionally altered details
or created composite settings, particularly in cafes, office buildings and
outlying areas, so my descriptions should not be treated as travelogue.

I have taken somewhat greater liberties with geo-politics, particularly
recent U.S. and Russian policies toward Tajikistan. That said, I have drawn my
narrative from actual developments. Since 2001 heroin smuggling northward out
of Afghanistan has constituted a significant, large-scale problem for the world
community---particularly for NATO forces battling anti-Western insurgents in
the region, and for countries in Europe and the former Soviet Union where the
heroin is distributed and sold. And Tajikistan, while not the only
central-Asian state through which this smuggling occurs, is situated at the
nexus of interdiction efforts. My disclaimer relates to specifics; the
characters in my story are not based upon past or present real-life political
figures in the Tajik government, or upon representatives of the U.S. and
Russian governments engaged in the region. And of course the specific events I
describe are entirely my own creation.

The
Boston World Tribune
, likewise, is a fictional news
organization.

About the Author

Eric Almeida was born in Ithaca, New York in 1962 and raised in Rhode
Island. He attended Tabor Academy and majored in History at Brown University,
where he also competed on the rowing team. Upon graduation in 1984 he worked as
a Sports Writer at the
Providence Journal
for one year,
then
resumed his education at The Nitze School of Advanced
International Studies (SAIS) of Johns Hopkins University, receiving an M.A. in
International Affairs in 1987.

From graduate school he detoured into business, working as international
sales manager for an American high-technology company for five years, primarily
in Europe. He proceeded to co-found a software-development venture based in
Belarus and Paris, for which he also served as President from 1996-2001.

Soon thereafter he returned to writing, his core interest. He currently
divides his time between the countries of the former Soviet Union and the New
England coastline.
Live from Moscow
is his first novel.